


Every Mile And Every Year

by junkersju52



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: (excessive swearing because Lorenzo likes to say Fuck), Angst, Dissociation (kind of), Fluff, M/M, SSC Napoli, Sexual Content, all the Christmas cliches, cheesy karaoke singing, i joined the cool kids club, i lost years of my life for this y'all, mid-tempo burn, now with NSFW
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:31:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkersju52/pseuds/junkersju52
Summary: The game is new, the season is young, and Lorenzo is in trouble again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, all the events are fictional, created for entertainment purposes, no harm meant.
> 
> If you found this by googling your name, you should probably hit the back button right about now. unless... that's your thing ? lmao
> 
> title from nick cave - to be by your side
> 
> further disclaimer: i know virtually nothing about Dries so this might be OOC at points sry bout that

If someone asked him, Lorenzo probably couldn't even tell how it happened. He can't pin down the exact moment when he started to understand. But if he had to name a day and place, it would be this exact match.  
A friendly between seasons, a muggy August evening in Lyon. They're lined up to walk out onto the pitch, Dries is in front of him, chatting in French with some guy he knows from the other team. Lorenzo looks at the back of his neck. Dries turns towards him and says something that gets lost in the roar of the crowds as the teams start walking out. He touches Lorenzo's arm, his smile bright and sharp from adrenaline. Lorenzo laughs and smiles back and Dries turns around again. That's when he feels it.  
That strange, longing pull from somewhere just below his throat.  
He's been here before. Three summers ago.  
It feels like another lifetime.

Lorenzo has been with girls before, he loved them all, in a way, kind, smart, and beautiful as they were. He was happy when he was with them and sad when they left him, as it was supposed to be. Mostly it was them who left him. Sometimes, he ended it because it would have been unfair to waste their time when he knew he wouldn't give them what they were looking for. It was alright. It felt like nature.

It wasn't until he met Ciro that he understood why people so often mention love and pain in the same sentence.

If the girls coming and leaving were like the ebb and flow of the tides, he was the flood that wrecked his home.  
It had been the year he was on loan to Pescara where he met Ciro, tall, blond, raucous laugh, an easy and dependable presence by his side.  
It took them mere weeks to learn each others movements, and a few weeks more to become the best striker duo in the league.  
Falling in love with Ciro had been easy like breathing, and it had been even easier to close it off deep inside where it would burn and fester without light or oxygen.  


It was the evening before Ciro left for Genoa, late July, when Lorenzo sat shotgun in Ciro's beat up old Fiat and confessed the feelings he had kept a secret for the last seven months.  
Lorenzo had clutched his knees and cried and choked out words while Ciro held him and stroked his hair and tried to let him down gently. Because he was his best friend but he would never be more than that.  
Of course he had known that it could only end like this. His stupid crush with a single possible outcome. But there had been one tiny part of himself that let him hope, foolishly.  
He had made the fatal mistake of allowing himself to think that _just maybe_.  
It was that part of himself that made him notice the broad set of Ciro's shoulders, the beauty in his crooked grin. That wouldn't let him forget how it had felt to run his hands through that wild blonde hair.  
It all had to lead to this. Him sitting in Ciro's car crying his soul out, feeling smaller than he ever had in his life.

Ciro hugs him goodbye at the airport and tells him to stay strong and keep his head up because 'you're gonna be the best they ever had'.  
Lorenzo plasters on a smile and wishes him good luck for the coming season even though he's still pale and shaky and Ciro can see right through his bullshit.  
He looks terribly worried when he looks back and waves before walking up to the gate to join his group. Guilt sinks a little bit deeper in Lorenzo's chest.  
It had been selfish to tell him, to tell him _now _. He knew Ciro would uselessly tear himself up over this and blame himself when there was really nothing he could have done.  
He shouldn't have told him. But he couldn't keep it to himself any longer.__

He spends the next season back at Napoli. He's relieved but sometimes he still thinks he'd trade it gladly to have Ciro by his side again, to joke with him and hear him laugh. He went through the motions, tried his best to carry on as before. Slowly, he'd regain their trust and his place on the squad. They don't loan him out again after that. He dreams of captaining their side one day, to lead for Napoli, because this is his city that he burns and bleeds for. But he doesn't let himself be jealous of Marek, because Marek is his friend, and he has done more for the club than any of them. He knows without Marek they'd crash and burn faster than you could say 'Diego Armando Maradona'. 

They sign Dries the next season, from some ailing club in the Netherlands whose name Lorenzo can't pronounce. He doesn't think much of it at first. New players come and leave all the time. They don't interact much the first few weeks.

As it turns out, Dries is good. He's damn good.

They train together and it's going well. On the pitch, Dries reads his movements as if they've been teammates for years. Lorenzo doesn't know what to think of it. He keeps his distance. They rarely ever talk. Dries doesn't seem to mind. He keeps greeting Lorenzo in broken Italian, with the same small smile.

Lorenzo scores a late winner against Atalanta and Dries comes running and throws his arms around him. His grin is wide and bright and shows off his dimples. It takes Lorenzo by surprise, this is new, they never hugged before. He doesn't have time to think, though, because now the rest of his team jump on him, patting his back and ruffling his hair. And then it hits Lorenzo too because they won, and the San Paolo is cheering for him, their prodigal son returned.

Lorenzo compares himself to Dries constantly, and it makes sense because they're so similar in some ways. They play the same position. They both have that practised charisma that short people develop not to get overlooked. He compares their stats, their transfers, their wikipedia pages. It doesn't help him understand. Except now he knows that Dries was born in Leuven and his birthday is the 6th of May. 

A few days later, Dries scores his first goal for Napoli and it's a thing of beauty. Lorenzo meets him with a picture-perfect long pass and Dries weaves his way past two defenders and puts it in the back of the net. He runs toward Lorenzo and jumps in his arms, and he hugs him, his palm on Dries' neck while the stadium erupts around them. His face is red and sweaty, but he's beaming, he's fucking radiant, and Lorenzo celebrates with him. It's okay because Dries belongs to Napoli now, he's part of the team. His goals are _their_ goals and Lorenzo doesn't know why he ever felt threatened.  
They get to know each other a little more after that. 

Dries struggles with the Italian pronounciation. His R's are never quite round enough. First, there was the flat, raspy R of his own Germanic language.  
Next he tries with a wispy, tongue-tipping one like Lorenzo had heard on that Icelandic guy he had met at the Pescara Christmas party last year. 

  
He had gone there hoping to see Ciro again, just as a friend, because he missed him. In the end, Ciro had not shown up and Lorenzo had taken his disappointment to the bar to drown in punch and pink prosecco. 

Just as he was about to make the switch to vodka, someone approached from the corner of his eye. Lorenzo's heart lurched just to fall down again.  
Not Ciro.  


Someone else who was tall and blonde took the spot next to Lorenzo. The colour was right, and so was his build. It took Lorenzo a second to recognise him.

It was the Icelander everyone had always talked about a few months back.  
Lorenzo couldn't seem to recall his name right now.  


He gestured with his own drink toward Lorenzo's vodka bottle.

'Don't know about you, but this doesn't look like fun to me.'  


Lorenzo poured vodka into his empty prosecco glass.

'I hate Christmas.'  


The Icelander laughed.

'Cheers to that. But why are you here then ?'  


'I was hoping to meet someone, but apparently they didn't think so.'  


'They ?'  


'He'.

It was out before he could think. Lorenzo slapped himself mentally. Drinking always made his mouth faster than his brain.  


'Ah.' 

The blonde took a sip of his drink and leaned on the counter just a bit too nonchalantly.  


'So, are you planning to just drink away the evening then ? Or would you like to dance ?'  


Lorenzo downed the rest of his drink and thought or said 'why the hell not' and they moved to the middle of the hall where a crowd of equally drunk people was shuffling and writhing around to some terrible dance music mix.  


Someone had actually put up a fucking disco ball that sent light spots flitting over the walls and faces. Lorenzo could hardly see between the flickering half-light and the shoulders of people taller than him but the Icelander was by his side and flashed him a crooked smile that made his heart ache.  
There wasn't a lot of dancing to be done, because the improvised dancefloor was packed with people. It was little more than shuffling on the same spot but the guy had a nice broad chest that Lorenzo could lean his head back against as they swayed back and forth to fucking _Danza Kuduro_.  


He put a hand on Lorenzo's waist from behind, keeping him steady. It was nice and warm, Lorenzo found. The guy's leather jacket smelled like booze and easy comfort. He turned around and got on his toes to yell 'this music fucking sucks' somewhere in the proximity of the other's ear.  


The blonde grinned, teeth white and gleaming. 'Can't argue with that', he yelled back. 

Lorenzo grabbed him by the lapel of his jacket. 'Let's get out of here.'  


The Icelander stumbled after him willingly as Lorenzo lead them to the bathroom. They squeezed inside an empty stall and Lorenzo locked the door. 

'Get behind me' he mumbled and the other obliged, pulled him back against his chest and started kissing the side of his neck.  


His stubble scratched Lorenzo's cheek as he scraped his teeth over the soft skin. His head fell back involuntarily and he let out a moan as the Icelander put his palm to the front of his jeans.  


'Jesus fucking Christ' someone said in the stall next to them. The noise of water flushing before their unwilling witness fled the bathroom.  


'He didn't wash his hands',

the Icelander said after a beat and Lorenzo giggled and pushed his hips into his palm. He chuckled in response and undid Lorenzo's pants to get his dick out. Lorenzo could feel his erection against the small of his back as he fit his large, warm hand around him and started jacking him off in quick, rough strokes.

Lorenzo braced himself against the stall door. It was good, the pleasure mixing with the dizziness of the alcohol. He dropped his forehead against the cool metal. It felt like the room was spinning. Lorenzo knew he wouldn't last long.  


He felt like a rubber band stretched too tight. Like hanging from the monkeybars by one wrist, against the relentless pull of gravity, the steady tug of the Icelander's fist. Lorenzo let go and fell, came over his hand with a high, keening noise.  


He turned around, heaving for air. When he opened his eyes again, it was like coming out of a trance. His brain caught up with him and the lights went back on with a fucking vengeance. 

He was in a cold bathroom that stank of piss and cigarettes. He looked at the man opposite of him who just finished wiping Lorenzo's come off his hand.

His hair was too long, his face was all _wrong_ , none of the angles fit.

Lorenzo took rapid, flat breaths through his nose. He felt like something was pushing down on his throat, cutting off his air. He couldn't fucking breathe-  


The stranger who _had just given him a handjob in a bathroom at his ex-club's Christmas party_ looked at him weirdly.  
'You okay there ?' _his ex-club, where everyone knew him, they must have seen him, the press would tear him apart, how could he be so fucking stupid-_  


Lorenzo slumped down on the toilet, hit his head on the wall in the process. The Icelander squatted down next to him so they were almost eye to eye.

'What's wrong ?' he asked but Lorenzo couldn't reply because his mouth was filled with sand, and now came the tears, he just sat there, his shoulders shaking, he couldn't stop. Because he'd gone and fallen for Ciro, and he'd fucking ruined himself, that was it, he couldn't even get a fucking drunken handjob without crying because everything made him think of _him_ -  


'Hey,' the blonde said softly, trying to talk him down from the ledge that he had hyperventilated himself onto.  
'I'm gonna take your hand now' he said, and Lorenzo let him, he understood what he was trying to do.  
He started a little easy conversation to calm him down, talked to him in slow tones, as well as he could, about the ongoing season, about the weather in Reykjavík, about all the volcanoes they have, just like in Naples..  
Lorenzo tried to pull it together and participate, to come back to himself. He went for the first, obvious question.  


'What's your name ?' 

He said something short and very Icelandic with a hissing sound.  
Lorenzo nodded and forgot it immediately.

The Icelander didn't ask who he was, everyone at Pescara knew who he was, he won them the league last year, _last year-_  
It fucking started again, another series of sobs shaking his frame, 'I.. I just m- -miss him..I miss him so much'  


He hummed sympathetically and stroked his hand and Lorenzo realized that he had slipped into speaking Neapolitan and the other guy didn't understand a word he said.  


He got up shakily, unlocked the stall door and staggered over to the sinks to splash water in his face. His face was red and blotchy. Everyone would see that he had cried. He turned towards the blonde, a pleading look in his eyes, 

'Please, don't tell anyone about this'.

The other nodded, his face serious like a boyscout speaking their oath. Lorenzo always found blue eyes difficult to read but the pity was clear as day on his face. He stayed close to Lorenzo's side as he steered him through the crowd towards the main exit. 

Lorenzo sat down on the marble stairs and let the icy night air wash over his face while the Icelander called him a taxi.  
It took a while and several tries because he couldn't hit the phone keys right .  
The taxi arrived about ten minutes later. Lorenzo mouthed 'thank you' to the blonde before he slurred his hotel's address at the driver and slumped down on the back seat.  


He can't remember how he managed to get up to his room and unlock the door before he fell down on the bed in his clothes and shoes, dead to the world.  
He dreamed of following a tall blonde man down a labyrinth of tiled bathrooms.  
He thinks it might be Ciro but the man never lets him see his face.

~


	2. Chapter 2

After a few months, Dries' Italian is fluent enough for daily conversation. He must have a talent for it, Lorenzo thinks, as this must be his fourth language. He is astonished by how much of Dries' personality was held back by the language barrier. They both were the designated funny guy among their friends, so at first there is a competitive edge to it, like they're fighting about who can make the other laugh more.  
He finds out that Dries doesn't just laugh, he _giggles_ , too. His standards for jokes aren't high, either. It's easy to get him to crack up and bring out the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

In September, Dries comes into training with his hair dyed blonde. They all tease and rib him for it. Secretly, Lorenzo loves it. It makes him look younger, careless, and shines like polished brass in the sun.  
The quiff bounces when he jumps or runs. Last week, Lorenzo has raked his fingers through Dries' hair in celebration, and he yearns to do it again. 

Although the language course he is taking probably teaches standard Italian, it doesn't take long at all for the Belgian to adopt the Neapolitan accent. Lorenzo listens to him speak and it fills him with pride and thievish joy. He teaches Dries Neapolitan cursewords every chance he gets.  
He wants to make Dries feel at home, wants to make him one of their own.  
He wants to show him the blood miracle of San Gennaro and wish for a whole year of luck together.  
He wants to lead him around his city and show him everything, the secret spots and the obvious beauty, so Dries will love Naples as he loves it.  
_So he won't leave_ , remarks the little voice that Lorenzo chooses to conveniently overhear.

He still compares himself to Dries all the time.  
Dries talks when he's nervous, while Lorenzo gets quiet.  
Lorenzo is covered in tattoos. Dries only has two small ones on his forearms.  
Lorenzo is fairly good-looking.  
Dries is so beautiful it gets hard to breathe sometimes.

Dries bitches about the hot weather all morning during training. Lorenzo allows himself to talk before his brain can catch up and suggests driving down to the beach later.  
Dries agrees happily, in fact he's fucking _beaming_. Lorenzo insists on driving them because his home is closer. Also, Dries doesn't know the way. At his house, he grabs a bunch of towels, his swimming shorts, and bounces down the stairs again. When he gets back into the car, Dries raises an eyebrow at his snapback, the Beats headphones slung around his neck, and starts singing.  


'Tu vùo fà l'americano, 'mericano'  


'Shut up.' Lorenzo gives him a playful shove. Dries stops and sniggers, proud of his little joke.

Lorenzo pulls the car out of the driveway. Dries looks out the window like an excited tourist, in awe at the buildings of the old city quarters.  
Naples is beautiful and pride flashes warmly in Lorenzo's chest.  
They stop in front of a small sports clothing store.  


'What are we doing here ?' Dries asks.  


'We're getting you a pair of shorts, genius.'  


'Oh. Right.'  


They both have sunglasses on but Lorenzo is pretty sure the casheer still recognized them. To her credit, she doesn't let it show and just points them to the swimwear section.  
Dries grabs a few shorts from the racks and disappears behind the curtain.  


'What do you think of this one ?' Dries steps out in pale blue shorts.  


'Aaaargh, I'm blinded' Lorenzo presses his hands over his eyes. Dries really is pale as a fish belly. 

'High time that you get some sun, my friend' Lorenzo brings out in between laughter.  


'Yeah, yeah, keep mocking. You wouldn't last a year in the north.',  


Dries huffs and tries on the second pair of shorts, bright red.  


'Your verdict ?'  


'These are good. But why do you ask me ? _You_ have to like them.'  


'You're better with fashion.'  


'That's a stereotype.'  


'But you _are_ better with fashion.'  


'Touché.'

Dries ends up picking the red shorts and insists on keeping them right on. Lorenzo throws an apologetic look to the casheer as Dries pushes his hip onto the counter so she can scan the price tags.

They're making their way back to the car when Dries says 'hey, wait a second.'

'What is it ?'

'I want fries.'

'Seriously ? You're in Naples and you want _fries_ ?'

'Shhhh, man. Just let me honour my country.'

Dries gets his fries and they sit down in Lorenzo's car.  
Under normal circumstances, Lorenzo would never ever let anyone bring _food_ into his car, but he doesn't mind now, because it's Dries,  
and he smiles at Lorenzo over his fries that he isn't even allowed to eat since they're on diet all the time.  
There are a few grains of salt sticking to his upper lip and Lorenzo looks away quickly.  
He's glad he's only gotten himself a coke light because he couldn't get a bite down like this.

They take the A3 out of the city, down to Ercolano. There is a toll station and a fee to be paid but Lorenzo doesn't mind because this highway is usually less crowded with cars.  
It's gotten even hotter by now and Dries has rolled his window down and is fumbling around with the radio. 

'Not to sound like a hipster but music has been kind of terrible lately.' 

He keeps turning the dial, zapping through warbled shreds of Katy Perry, advertisements, weather broadcasts, until he finds some 70's dad rock station.

'That's better.'  
Lorenzo snorts at that.

'You know, music won't get better if you just keep complaining and listening to the old stuff. You have to support the new artists that you _like_.  
It's our responsibilty toward future generations.'  


Dries just grins and turns up the stereo. 'Après moi, le déluge.'  


They're blasting down the highway to 'Whole Lotta Love' and the gulf stretches beside them in brilliant, glittering blue.

When they get there, Lorenzo parks the car in some side road and they walk the rest of the way. He's picked a piece of rocky beach a bit further off from the tourist centres. The foreign visitors prefer the sandy beaches surrounded by pizza vendors, and at this time of day, most people are at work anyway.  
They have the beach almost entirely to themselves. There's only a woman walking a large, cream-coloured dog in the distance when they make their way down to the waterline.  


Dries is overly excited about the ocean and runs into the water yelling and laughing like a child. Lorenzo is perplexed at first but remembers that while Belgium isn't a completely landlocked country, Dries probably didn't get to see the ocean quite that often when he was young.  
Dries goes digging around in the flotsam. He comes back with a handfull of small, rounded red pebbles and starts talking about the red brick buildings on the North Sea coast where he spent the last two years. About their terrible floods and whole houses being swept to the sea and crumbled into pieces smaller than his fingertip. There is awe in Dries' voice as he talks about the power of the ocean.  


Lorenzo is more awed by the sight of Dries in his swimming shorts. The hair on his arms and shins is short and blond and glitters golden in the sun. 

He decides to lay down on his towel and roast in the sun for a while until Dries throws a dead crab at him and Lorenzo has to dunk him under water to retaliate. 

They splash around in the surf until they get exhausted and flop down on the warm rock next to each other.  
Dries is lying on his back, his chest heaves from running. His eyes are squeezed shut in a breathless smile. Locks of wet hair stick to his temples. Lorenzo looks away and tries not to think of the contrast of Dries' pale hands against his own tanned skin.

The thing about swimming is, only after you get out of the water, you realize how hungry it makes you. Dries demands _food_ and there's no arguing about that. 'You've had fries an hour ago.'  
'And ?'  
'You're going to get fucking fat'.

'That's _my_ problem then.'

'Alright, I'm gonna get something. You stay here.'

Lorenzo walks to his car and drives a few minutes into the city. He stops at a bakery to buy _sfogliatelle_ , crispy and sweet with orange and cinnamon. He buys pizza frittata at another shop and makes his way back to the beach.

Dries eats the unfamiliar foods the same way he speaks Italian: slowly, carefully, pausing to taste the shapes and words between his lips. 

Lorenzo tries to imagine what it would feel like to kiss him. He knows that the skin of Dries' neck is warm and sticky after matches, all the times he's thrown his arms around him in celebration. The smell of Dries' shampoo is burned into the back of his brain.

It's nice, light and easy. It's fucking perfect. 

Lorenzo wishes it could be like this all the time, just the two of them, the beach, and the midday sun burning over Naples.  
They forgot their sunscreen and some time around 4pm Dries turns up with his back crab red and starts complaining. Lorenzo teases him for a bit but takes mercy in the end. He drives them back to his house and takes Dries to the bathroom to slather him in cooling lotion.  
Lorenzo can't stop laughing while Dries lies on his belly and spits curses in Dutch.  
'I hate you', Dries says half-heartedly.  
Lorenzo laughs and presses his fingertip down on Dries' reddened shoulder blade.  
Dries squeaks and slaps his hand away. 'Fuck off.'

They spend another half hour, chatting idly about this and that, until Dries says he should be heading home.

He calls himself a taxi and thanks Lorenzo at the door for the nice day they spent.

It felt so much like a date. 

Lorenzo thinks if they weren't who they are, they would be kissing right now.

Instead, they hug and and Lorenzo presses his face into the crook of Dries' neck just a split second too long.

He doesn't watch the taxi leave. He walks back upstairs and sits on his couch and wonders what he has gotten himself into.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta-ed and also I don't know shit about Naples but look at me go,,, wheee


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *brushes grave dirt off shoulders* IT'S ALIVEEE  
> this chapter is extra long l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶l̶i̶s̶t̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶s̶ ̶i̶ ̶s̶h̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶d̶o̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶i̶n̶s̶t̶e̶a̶d̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶w̶r̶i̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶s̶

The season is going well, they're blazing through half the country, winning almost every match. The few defeats sting even more for it.  
Losing is different for Lorenzo, because he's born and raised here, and the press will always look closer and judge him harder. What he does on the pitch is more than just football. He represents the city, the best of them when they win, and all of their shortcomings when they lose.  
His mother hides away the newspapers when he comes to visit. 

She tells him "you play sports, Lollo, it's not on you to fix the damn economy. These people don't deserve you'' and she sounds protective as if he's still the little boy who comes late for dinner and homework because there's nothing more important than football.  
His team knows and they all console him after losses and he's thankful for it, even though he would rather lick his wounds in silence at home. Or maybe he wouldn't, he thinks, after a frustrating draw when Dries pulls him in for a long hug and mumbles close to his ear that it wasn't his fault. And they both know that it's true but that doesn't mean Lorenzo is going to _listen_.

They don't see each other a lot away from the pitch. Lorenzo has saved Dries' private number in his phone, from that time last month when Dries had called him to ask for help with registrating his car. He's never texted him, but there's his profile picture, Dries in hoodie and sunglasses, petting some shaggy gray dog. He's only slightly disappointed that you can't see his eyes in the photo.  


Sometimes when he's in bed by himself, with too much time on his hands, Dries shows up in his mind, in bits and pieces, where he knows him best.  
The hair at the nape of his neck, curled from sweat. Narrow hips in white shorts. His sunburned back under Lorenzo's hands.  
He resolves not to think too much of it because he's past feeling guilty. Sometimes it's women, sometimes men.  
Lately, it's Dries, more often than not.  
It doesn't matter, though, because there is absolutely nothing to be done. He's not a child anymore. He's not going to do to Dries what he did to Ciro.  


The days are growing shorter and colder as the year is drawing to a close. It rarely gets truly icy in Naples but now more and more players start wearing caps and gloves to training sessions.  
Milik and Zielinski make fun of the weakling southern Europeans because "we have had summers that were colder than this" before they start bickering in Polish. About the weather, Lorenzo assumes.  


Everyone and everything is in a state of expectation, working up to the next match which is supposed to be especially important. Sarri wants them to enter the winter break on a high, to secure a good starting position for January.  
When the match comes around, it turns out that there wasn't anything to fear. A dangerous way of thinking, he remembers, arrogance is to be avoided at all costs, they work better when the odds are stacked against them.  
Today, he doesn't want to think about that, though, because this day is too good for fake humility.  


Because the match is going fucking great.  
Dries scores a hattrick against Torino and Lorenzo has never wanted anyone as much as he wants him. He watches Dries run up to the light blue ranks of the Napoli crowd, as he takes a bow, pats the crest over his heart, yells out his triumph.  
When he makes the fourth he just runs a bit and then slides down on the grass, lying on his back. He grins up into the sky above. If it weren't for the night, Lorenzo bets it would be Napoli blue. He runs over to Dries, can't even hear the roaring of the crowds. He doesn't feel his knees hitting the grass as he fall down above him, this wonderful, infuriating man who just scored four goals in one match. Who holds Lorenzo's heart in his palm and doesn't know it. He cradles Dries' face in his hands and yells his name, and Dries opens his eyes and looks up at him and also starts yelling and laughing wildly because they're winning 5-3 and nothing can ever hurt them.

They finish the night like this, high on victory.  
It all blends together in Lorenzo's memory, the adrenaline rush, the win, Dries' smiling face. Hugs from friends and strangers. A blur of noise and movement, blinking into the floodlights. Every matchday is overwhelming and blinding like his very first.

It had been the last match before the Christmas break and the annual holiday dinner, a week before everyone went home to celebrate with their family. Lorenzo is beyond relieved about the win. Celebrating after a defeat never sat well with him. It feels dishonest, sardonic, pretending to enjoy himself when he'd rather hide out alone until the hurt fades. Also, he still feels a bit wary about Christmas dinners after what happened last year, thank you very much.  


Today however, all is well. The club rented out one of the fancier restaurants for the evening, the place crawling with current and former Napoli teammates, relatives, physios, functionaries in suits to smile and shake your hand at.  
Lorenzo makes his way to the players' table, fashionably late, sits down next to Pepe and Callejón who are talking animatedly in Spanish. He takes a look around, notes he fits right in with his black sweater and gold accessories. Black is festive and not complicated. Everyone is wearing black. Except for Zielinski who showed up in a tacky christmas-patterned plaid shirt, because Zielinski doesn't give a fuck.

Dries sits somewhere on the opposite, a bit off to the left, laughing about something that Allan just said. He's put on some dark suit jacket, round, gold-rimmed glasses. His hair is coiffed up perfectly, the one act of vanity Dries allows himself. He looks nice. Everything is nice tonight, from the warm shine of the candles to the Christmas foods.  
Of course most of the things are still nutrient balanced and low-fat, because God forbid somebody ingest a carbohydrate by accident. But there's an enormous plate of _struffoli_ , small pastry balls fried golden and piled up under rainbow sugar sprinkles, because you just can't have Christmas without them.

There is a cake too, a blue-white fondant monstrosity with sparklers on top that the chef team proudly wheels in under the applause of the table rounds.

Everyone was on their best behaviour for Christmas, but a few bottles of wine and all the order dissolved, Lorenzo notes with satisfaction as he looks over his shoulder and sees Pepe spoon-feeding pasta salad to Mario Rui. The last pretense of dignity goes out the window when they bring out the karaoke and a half-empty liquor bottle to spin on the table between them. Dries volunteers, because of course he fucking does, and chooses to sing _'Abbracciame'_ , of all things. He spins the bottle to find his duet partner and Lorenzo wonders if it's medically possible to just die on the fucking spot. But for once, fate has mercy on him and the bottle stops on Calleti.  


They step on the improvised stage where some local band had been playing until half an hour ago. Their rendition is cheesy, exaggerated and swoony, in other words, they are _very_ good at karaoke. Calleti is probably well into his third drink because he's red in the face and slurs his words a little. He wraps one of his spidery long arms around Dries and Dries puts one hand behind his head like a highschool girl trying to be sexy as they sway from side to side and croon out the lyrics.  
Calleti gets the bottle next and it lands on Lorenzo, who spins it and gets paired up with Mario Rui, so that's something. Then Dries puts on the smuggest fucking grin and dares them to sing _Dancing Queen_ , which makes Lorenzo seriously overthink his taste in men, but only for a second because Mario Rui drags him onto the floor excitedly.  
Queue the music, and they're on, and Lorenzo is very fucking lost and doesn't know half of the words, but he makes up for it by being loud and off key. And anyway, Mario Rui has enthusiasm for three and throws himself into the chorus. Lorenzo knows a former class clown when he sees one.  
After that, they draw up Marek and Pepe and challenge them to sing _Barbie Girl_ just for the fuck of it. Marek throws them a look that says  
''I will break all of your kneecaps''  
but Pepe just laughs and tugs him up by the arm under the hooting and hollering of the table round.

It's more fun than anyone cares to admit, and copious amounts of wine do the rest. After everyone has embarrassed themselves sufficiently, they start moving up to the second floor where a dancefloor has been set up. There's a DJ pumping out the usual no words-techno mix that becomes fun once you get drunk, so Lorenzo heads over to the bar, trying to shake off the uneasy sense of deja-vu. He takes a discreet look around, spots Dries who appears to be having some dance-off with Jorginho and Koulibaly that he is clearly losing. In between, he's sipping from a bottle that Arek is passing around, probably some sort of Slivovitz that he's smuggled in.  
Dries sees him and waves before he bounds over, wide grin on his face, and Lorenzo can only smile back because Dries looks happy and shiny and there are glittery bits of artificial snow stuck in his hair.

"Hey", Dries says. Somehow, you can even hear the smile in his voice.  


"Hey", Lorenzo says back, eloquently, and sips on his drink to try and play it cool.  


And then the fucking DJ decides that this, this is the right moment to abandon his drums-n-bass and play fucking _Abbracciame_ again.

"Hmm, I _like_ this song."

Dries wraps his arm loosely around Lorenzo's waist and sways against him, giggling, and all of his thoughts come to a screeching halt, his brain goes _splat_ like a fucking egg thrown out of a speeding car.  
\-- how the _fuck_ is he supposed to keep from hyperventilating when Dries is mouthing _'abbraccieme stanotte, nun me voglio arricurdà'_ against his shoulder --  
Dries, however, doesn't seem to notice Lorenzo silently vibrating out of his skin. He untangles himself from his back and nods toward the iced Limoncello glass Lorenzo is still holding in hand. "What are you drinking ?" Lorenzo can't help but laugh at that because how the fuck can you live in Naples for half a year and not learn what Limoncello is ? But he motions to the barkeeper and orders Dries a glass of the same. 

And of course Dries downs it like a shot and gives himself a brain freeze, which in turn sends Lorenzo into a hysterical giggle fit. Dries looks at him when he has his face back under control, a challenging gleam in his eyes. ****

"Oh, you want funny ? I know something funny"  
and he orders a shot of Tequila and what looks like a quarter of a lemon, because Dries will have his revenge, and he shoves both at Lorenzo.  


"Alright, fair is fair",  


Lorenzo downs the shot, easy, and he bites into the lemon and can't help pulling a face. 

And _of course_ Dries has his phone out to take a picture.

"Delete that",

Lorenzo wheezes. Dries just laughs. 

"Oh no, this goes on my Insta."

Lorenzo tries to snatch the phone from him but Dries already ducks out the door to the balcony. Lorenzo runs after him, out into the chill of the night air.  
There is Dries, leaning against the wall under the fairy lights, idly scrolling through his phone.  
He looks up, a bleary grin on his face. Lorenzo steps towards him, holds out his hand.

"Give it here."

Dries grin grows even wider. There are the crinkles around his eyes that Lorenzo loves so much.

"Come and get it‘, Dries says and tucks the phone into his back pocket.  


"Give it"

Lorenzo grabs for the phone and Dries grabs his wrist.  


His hand is on Dries‘ ass.  


And Dries is holding it there.  


Dries tilts his head a little, his face is half in shadow, but he knows he‘s looking him straight in the eye.  
Lorenzo‘s heart beats up to his neck. He's staring at Dries like the proverbial rabbit at the snake.  
The silence is stretching between them but he can‘t think of anything to say because all that rushes through his brain is  


he knows he knows he knows _Dries knows_

When Dries finally talks his voice is soft and low and nothing like he‘s ever heard before.

"How long are we going do this ?"

" Do what ?"

"This. Dancing around each other. Pretending we don‘t want to."

It feels like an eternity passes before he manages to croak out "I don‘t know what you mean".

and he knows how lame and unconvincing it sounds.  
Dries' face falls because they are both so bad at pretending. And Lorenzo desperately wants to take it back and fix it, but it‘s too late.  
The moment is broken and Dries has let go of his wrist.  


"You‘re right. Sorry. Forget I mentioned it."

And with that he ducks away from the wall, back into the building.

"Dries, wait" Lorenzo calls after him. He doesnt expect him to wait, really.  
When he comes back down, Dries is nowhere around.  
He bumps against someone's back in the crowd, it's Marek, a drink in hand.  


"Have you seen Dries ?" he asks, a little out of breath.  


"He said he wasn‘t feeling good and wanted to go home. Why ?"

"I just wondered who's going to drive him", he answers, pretty proud of himself for coming up with that.

"He said he was gonna call a taxi."

"Oh, good. Thanks, Marek."

Marek looks after him when he leaves.

Calling a taxi sounds like a pretty fucking great idea. At least he's sober enough to call it himself this time.  
At home, he flops down on his bed, already feeling the makings of a nasty headache.

He wakes up way too early next morning because he forgot to close the fucking blends and the even the sun decided to fuck with him, apparently.  
His head is throbbing painfully, but he's had worse if he's being honest here, so he gets up to grab a glass of water. His phone seems to have died over night.

He plugs it in and it buzzes with unread texts. Lorenzo's heart speeds up as he opens his Whatsapp.  
Four new messages, sent 03:15 am. From Dries.

_'ur photos I deleted them after sry'_

There are the photos.  
Three of them, a bit shaky, bad lighting. Lorenzo downing the shot, biting the lemon, face scrunched up in a less-than-elegant way.  
And one photo that he hadn't even noticed him taking. Lorenzo smiling back at Dries in the dim lighting, his cheeks reddened from alcohol. His gaze soft and and careless, looking completely and utterly in love.  


_'Thanks'_  
Lorenzo texts back.  
Nothing more, because he throws his phone aside and rolls on his back to stare at the ceiling. He doesn't know what to do.  
He'd really thought he could make it this time. Could stay away.  
But now Dries had gone and just flipped the fucking board. Sent all of Lorenzo's anxious little chess pieces flying.

Of course Dries had been drunk, hell, they both had been. Drunk men tell the truth, don't they ?  
It's hard to wrap his head around. He'd never imagined that Dries might want him, too, as different as they are.  
He can't help but think what he sees when he looks at him, with his meticulous, weekly-changing haircuts, the tattoos, the glitter ear studs, when Dries is enough just by being himself.

Lorenzo spends Christmas back home with his parents and siblings, like every year. Somehow, he manages not to think too often about Dries, and how he had looked at him, warm hazel turned dark and expectant under thin yellow lighting.  
He holds out until Silvester. The bells are ringing all over town, and they stand on the street to watch the fireworks, people hugging and kissing around them. Lorenzo gets his phone out and texts him.

_'Happy New Year'_  


Dries doesn't reply.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I99Lz_mjKfs
> 
> here's the video of last years napoli christmas dinner it's so sweet and wholesome i wanna kick myself in the forehead jjfc  
> everyone looks like a model and lorenzo is all crinkled up and smiley faced and probably a little drunk on white wine  
> also i'm so sorry zielu ur plaid shirt is amazing
> 
> here you find 'Abbracciame' in English translation if you wanna cry with me about mertigne lmao
> 
> https://lyricstranslate.com/de/abbracciame-hug-me.html-1


	4. Chapter 4

The new year doesn't seem to bring a lot of change.  
They're still second in the table, just as they were same time last year.  
The weather still sucks, just like last January.  
Lorenzo still spends his free time thinking about what would've been if he had kissed Dries right then and there.

He calls his barber and makes an appointment. The buzz of clippers against his scalp is one of the most cathartic feelings Lorenzo knows.  
Out with the old, in with the new.

He comes into training with a fresh haircut, short on the sides and spiked up in the front.

Callejón ruffles his hair and says ''Well done, man. You look like a fucking coconut.''

He has to interact with Dries again in the training session after the holidays and it goes about as well as expected.  
Every move between them is weird and askew where it fit perfectly before.  
Turns out precise passing is increasingly difficult when you're desperately trying not to look each other in the eye.  
Lorenzo tries so fucking hard to act natural that he slips and falls on his ass when trying to accept Dries' high pass mid-air.  
Sarri eventually gets tired of watching them fuck up and sends them to run laps. He seems to write it off as late New Years hangover.

Marek isn't so easily fooled, however. He walks up to Lorenzo on the way back to the lockers, "Can I talk to you for a second ?'  
He waits until the others have cleared out of the locker room, because Marek is considerate like that.

'Listen, Lorenzo, I don't know what the hell is up with you and Dries, but you need to get it together you hear me ?  
Next week is important. We need you with your head in the game.  
'Both of you'', he adds after a beat.

Lorenzo mumbles something and looks at his feet like a child scolded and that must have given Marek the clue because he steps closer and puts a hand on his shoulder.  
"Dries is a very reasonable guy. I promise you'll be fine. Talk to him. Okay ?"

Lorenzo nods. Marek gives his shoulder a brief squeeze and pads off towards the showers.

He throws on his jacket and steps outside, where it's just beginning to rain. Dries is still there, by his car, getting ready to leave for today. Lorenzo takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. Might as well get over with it now.  
He walks over, comes to stand next to Dries, pushes his hands into his front pockets.

''Hey, uh.. can we.. can we talk ?''

Dries doesn't look up.

''About what ?''

''About Christmas.''

''I don't think there's anything to talk about.''

''Dries, please.''

''I don't know what you want from me.''

Dries continues packing his things into the trunk, making a show of concentration as he arranges his folded jacket next to his boots.  
He slams the trunk shut like a final statement before he gets into his car and pulls out of the parking lot. He remarkably did all that without looking at Lorenzo a single time.

Lorenzo mutters a curse under his breath.

Reasonable guy indeed. He snorts. So much for Marek's intuition.

Lorenzo drives home, showers, eats, makes coffee, all the while still in thought.  
He had been so sure he hadn't done anything wrong this time. In his mind, he goes through all their interactions, tries to identify what has made Dries so upset. He doesn't find it.  
Sure, Christmas was ...unfortunate, he had been caught off guard by Dries' sudden directness, he had panicked, but he had assumed Dries had seen it for what it was, not outright rejection.  
He was aware that his attraction to a teammate could cause a myriad of problems, but part of him had been ecstatic to learn that Dries felt it too, that there really was something between them. That he hadn't imagined that.

Maybe Dries hasn't yet come to terms with being attracted to men, although they are of an age where you usually have this sort of thing figured out. He couldn't be counted as authority on that topic, though. He hates to admit but he wouldn't recommend coming out to anyone, not here, not now. Society might have moved on, but it doesn't seem to apply when you're a footballer. He knows that fans who claim to love and support you can turn on you in the blink of an eye, for one missed shot, for one wrong move. It's bad enough as it is, he doesn't even want to imagine what it would be like if the public knew where his dick has been.

He listens to the persistent rain pattering down on the skylight. His brain is going in circles, getting nowhere. He can't explain this to himself.  
And maybe that's okay, because things like that take two people to figure out.

It's slowly getting dark outside and Lorenzo is considering getting up to roll down the window shutters when there's a ringing at his door.

He goes down to open up and there stands Dries on his patio, hair plastered to his forehead from rain. His jacket is already soaked at the arms and shoulders.  
His breath is going fast, his eyes wide and frantic. In short, he looks like hell.

''Dries, what the fuck.''

''You were right. We need to talk.''

_Yeah, no shit._  
Lorenzo scrubs a hand over his face, there is something really off about this, but he steps back and and makes way.

''Alright, come in.''  
Dries shakes his head, lifts the car keys in his right hand.

Lorenzo shrugs.  
''Fine. Give me a minute.''

He puts on his boots and jacket, gets his phone, his keys. He locks up and follows Dries.  
He's parked his car a little down the road.

''Get in''. Dries says, continuing his very atypical monosyllabic pattern.

Lorenzo opens the door and sits down on the passenger seat.  
He leans back against the headrest and closes his eyes. The rain keeps drumming on top of the car.  
Dries starts the engine.

Lorenzo vaguely wonders why all the make and break of his love life seems to be happening on the shotgun seats of cars. He waits for Dries to unpack, slowly and carefully, trying not to hurt him. He's been here before, he knows the deal. Patient for the sting of the needle.

It doesn't come. Dries stays silent.

He realizes something is different when he looks at Dries, whose hands are white-knuckled around the steering wheel.  
He looks smaller than usual, his body tired and drawn in on itself.  
It takes him a few minutes to realize that Dries isn't driving them anywhere. He's taking turns entirely at random, they're moving in bows and circles.

''Dries, where are we going ?'' he asks softly as they turn onto the Corso Meridionale for the third time.

Dries laughs, high-pitched and bitter.  
''I don't fucking know, I don't know'',

and he laughs some more, starting to sound slightly hysteric.  
''I'm so fucking lost, Lore''

Lorenzo reaches over and puts his hand on Dries' bicep, feels him tense under his touch before he lets out the shaky breath he's been holding.

''Take the next turn left.''

They drive on like this, Lorenzo slowly directs him to the West, towards Vomero Hill, along a winding road cutting through a grove of ducked trees, up to San Martino. They find a parking spot a little further off, in the shadow of the monastery-turned-museum, the Castel Sant'Elmo looming over their shoulders. Lorenzo thanks the cold and the bad weather that have frightened off the tourists. This spot is usually crawling with people, mostly because the hill gives you a great view over the city and the Gulf.

Lorenzo doesn't have to ask ''What the fuck was that about earlier''.  
The question is evident in the air between them. He stays silent, gives Dries time to get ready to talk.

Dries doesn't look at him as he starts apologizing. His voice is brittle and shaky, like he wasn't quite ready.  


''I'm sorry, Lorenzo. I know it's no excuse, but I was drunk and misread the situation. The last few months, actually.  
I never meant to endanger our friendship and I deeply regret bringing you into this position. I'm just asking, please, could we-''

Lorenzo tunes out halfway through it. He stares at his reflection in the car window. It's gotten dark outside.  


The worst of it all is the apathy, the acceptance in Dries' voice as he rattles down the rational course of action.  
Doing what's best for the both of them, obediently biting back their feelings until they never existed.  
When they both know that it's just lies and sad, cowardly, lonely self-preservation.  


Defiance, then anger spark up in Lorenzo's chest.

He won't let this go quietly, he won't pretend nothing ever was between them  
when he knows that he and Dries have something special.  
Something he's never felt before, for anyone.

''You weren't wrong.''

''What''  
Dries says, tonelessly.

His accent still slips when he's nervous.

''You were not wrong about me. You did not misread.''

Dries stares at him, eyes wide, mouth open.  
Lorenzo stares back.

Dries says something that probably means ''fuck'' and takes his face between his hands, and Lorenzo closes his eyes, and now it's on Dries to go the rest of the way. There's a second, a heartbeat of wait, stretching impossibly, before Dries' lips are sweet and warm on his own and even winning the World Cup couldn't be more victory than this.

He's not sure how Dries got out of the drivers' seat, but he's plastered to Lorenzo's front now.  
He kisses with unexpected force, he's pawing at Lorenzo's hair, his neck, licks into his mouth, determined to do everything at once.  
He fits his palm around the nape of Dries' neck, pulls him closer.  
The armrest digs into his shoulder, but he leans back so Dries can kiss him more, deeper, infused with thunder and desperation.

He feels Dries' heartbeat skittering under his palm. Somehow, it hadn't occurred to him before that Dries might be nervous, too. That this would be hard for him. It makes sense. Dries is new in this club. He's putting himself out there, for better or worse.  
He couldn't know how Lorenzo might have reacted. He might get angry. He might expose him to the rest of the team.

As it turns out, he was wrong about Dries in a great many of things.

He leans back in his seat, breathing heavily. His jeans feel uncomfortably tight.

Dries motions to start the car.

Lorenzo touches his hand.  
''No, we can't leave yet.''

Dries takes the key out of the ignition and looks at him, perplexed.

''What are we waiting for ?''

''The rain to stop. Any minute now.''

Lorenzo pushes open the door and steps out.

''Come''.

He leans against the hood of the car. Wind comes in from the sea, whippingly cold, but you can see half of Naples from up here, and beyond, the crescent shape of the Gulf, and the dark silhouette of the Vesuvius, when the weather is good.  
Today most of that is shrouded by clouds, so all you see is the city below, rows upon rows of streets and houses, lit up like the iridescent scales of a giant animal.  
Dries has stepped out of the car and stands next to him, peering strainedly into the darkness.

Then, somewhere down by the Spanish Quarters, Lorenzo sees what he's been looking out for. The first flickering orange spark, growing by the seconds. A different sort of light, living, organic.  
He looks further North, towards his old home. Light spots bloom by the minute.

He remembers the excitement in the weeks before the holiday, the secrecy of stealing and hoarding the wood, then the scramble to pull the tarps off the pyres. They all wanted to be the first to have their bonfire lit. Kids, mostly boys, faces streaked brown with _sanguinacco _. Maybe there's girls who do it too. He's not sure. He only has brothers. He recalls the smell of smoke filling his lungs, the biting January wind fanning the pyres into great pillars of flame. He was always the one sent to the riskiest spots, because he was so eager to prove himself, and he got away with being ten years old even when he was fifteen. He grins to himself at the memory. More and more fires bloom among the light pollution, until it looks like a glowing net thrown over the sprawling city, dozens upon dozens of flickering dots.__

__'What is that ?' Dries asks, transfixed on the view._ _

____

''Bonfires for Sant'Antuono'', Lorenzo replies.  
''It's his holiday.''

''They're beautiful'', Dries says.

He reaches for Lorenzo's hand again. His hand is warm as he entangles their fingers, like he's kept it in his pocket. He scoots closer and leans against Lorenzo, tilts his head to the side to rest on his shoulder. He can feel Dries' warmth through both their jackets.  
They just sit there silently for what must be twenty minutes or more, watching the fires, listening to the nightly city. Lorenzo slowly strokes Dries' thumb with his own.

'How long will these fires burn ?'' Dries asks after an eternity.

''The whole night'', Lorenzo replies.

Dries gets up, holds out his hand to Lorenzo, a silent invitation. They get back into the car. Dries finds the way back on his own.

The streets looks different now, lined by fires, dipped into a dreamlike orange sheen.  
There's people on the sidewalks, celebrating, dancing, burning off fireworks, shreds of music as they glide by. The smell of woodsmoke permeates everything.  
More than once they pass through a rain of sparks, as if to make abundantly clear: This is no ordinary night.

Dries' house, Lorenzo thinks he's been here before, but it seems different now, in the half-dark and the hurry. The furniture looks sparse, tidy, still barely lived in. Dries leads him through his shadowy, silent home, past the living room, up a set of stairs, towards his bedroom.

Dries enters the room first, he fumbles in the dark a few seconds, then he's turned on a small nightstand lamp. He slips out of his jacket, throws it over the back of a chair, leans back against it. He waits for Lorenzo to move, and Lorenzo does, he toes off his socks and walks across the shaggy carpet towards him. They stand face to face, Lorenzo knows he is staring now, at Dries' eyes, glittering in the dim light, his long dark lashes. His mouth, his lips that are always slightly chapped. 

Dries smiles again, but there's no humour in it, this is something else. He reaches out, framing Lorenzo's face between his hands. He pulls him in and Lorenzo's thoughts crash over each other like a Phil Collins drum solo. He only has to tip his head up the slightest bit and Dries' lips are on his again, slow at first, but then he fits his palm around the back of Lorenzo's neck, deepening the kiss. His other arm wraps around Lorenzo's waist, inching lower to squeeze his ass. He tugs at the hem of his shirt, wanting to put his hands on skin. Lorenzo grabs the fabric and pulls it over his head, lets it drop to the floor, and it's Dries turn to stare, Lorenzo smirks and steps closer again, wearing his nakedness like a challenge.

Now Dries has to draw level, and he reaches for the edge of his knitted sweater and pulls it up. Lorenzo has seen this a hundred times, he has memorized the sight and motion, but it makes his breath hitch all over again. Dries slips off the sweater, revealing his pale torso, the muscles at his shoulders rippling under his skin. His summer tan all but faded. His flat stomach, small waist, the little trail of light brown hair below his navel. His nipples are tiny and pink and Lorenzo leans in to skim his hands up Dries' sides and scrape his thumbs over them, making him twitch a little. He uses his chance to press a row of kisses up Dries' neck, because he has been thinking a lot, about his throat and the sharp cut of his jaw, and Dries seems willing to indulge him for a moment. God knows, he wants to worship every inch of Dries' body.

Dries kisses hastily, open-mouthed and demanding, only ever breaks off to gasp for air and pant his hot breath against Lorenzo's parted lips. He catches Lorenzo's lower lip between his teeth, the sudden pain goes straight to his dick, and he's already hard in his jeans. He presses closer to Dries, wants to mold himself against him, stomach to stomach, wants to grind his crotch into Dries' thigh. Dries is hard as well, Lorenzo can feel it, the heat pulsing through the fabric of his dark slacks, making him light-headed. He can't hold back his moan as Dries slips his hand in between them to palm his erection through the rough denim. Lorenzo's hands shake a little as he fumbles open Dries' slacks, then his own pants, he steps out of them, kicks them somewhere, he doesn't care. They're both in underwear now and Dries grabs him by his hips and pulls him close to leave a row of hickies just below his collarbone.

Dries walks them backwards until the back of his knees hits the edge of the bed, he sinks down and pulls Lorenzo on top of him. His sheets are dark blue cotton, and they smell like Dries, all over. Lorenzo straddles his waist and just looks at him for a second before he bends down to kiss him again. Dries reaches up to touch his cheek, he runs his thumb along the edge of Lorenzo's mouth. It catches on his lower lip, tugs it down a little. It's clear what he's asking for, and Lorenzo is planning to give it to him. 

He touches the tip of his tongue to it, tastes the salt on his skin. He closes his lips around Dries' thumb and sucks it slowly. Dries' breath hitches audibly, he scoots back on his elbows to prop himself up against the headboard. Lorenzo sits back on his knees and Dries slowly lets his thighs fall open. He watches him intently, eyes dark and half-hooded, Lorenzo can feel the weight of his gaze on his skin. He takes his time to move down Dries' body, mouthing at his neck, flicking his tongue over his nipples, which makes him giggle, but fuck him, they are _fascinating _. A pink flush has spread over Dries' neck and chest, his cheeks too, he looks lovely like this.__

Lorenzo nips the soft inside of Dries' thighs before he mouths at his stiff cock through the damp fabric of his boxers, puffs his warm breath onto him. It's been a while since he's done this, but he has confidence in his skill. He hooks his thumbs under Dries' waistband and rucks his boxers down his thighs.  
Dries has a nice dick, which doesn't surprise Lorenzo in the slightest. He might have seen him in the team showers before, but never like this, he's swollen and flushed pink, already leaking and straining towards his belly.  
Lorenzo loosely wraps his hand around him, collects saliva on his tongue before licking a long, wet stripe up the underside. He tastes like salt and sweat, smells exactly like he does after the matches when Lorenzo hugs him and kisses his cheek and utilizes all his willpower not to get a hard-on for his teammate in front of forty-thousand people.  


__He wets his lips again before he takes him in his mouth. Dries inhales sharply above him, his hand comes up to the back of Lorenzo's neck, his blunt nails scraping over his scalp. He doesn't push him down, just holds him loosely, plays with his hair, lets him do what he wants. Lorenzo bobs his head up and down, sliding along Dries' length, massaging the underside of his dick with his tongue._ _

____

He lets his eyes slip closed, focuses on the heat and thickness of Dries in his mouth, on relaxing his throat, but Dries hums and strokes his thumb over his cheek. He wants Lorenzo to look at him, fine, that he can have, he looks up at Dries through his lashes and he knows that's quite a sight, because Dries curses under his breath and bites his bottom lip. He keeps his eyes on him when he takes him all the way down, until his forehead presses into Dries' belly and the head of his dick nudges the back of his throat, because that's what he gets off on-

'Ah, fuck, Lorenzo' Dries moans and forgets to roll his Rs, and God, Lorenzo loves it because that's what his name must sound like in Dries' thoughts. He sucks a little harder, then pulls almost all the way off, just teasing his head with small licks, in hope of drawing more garbled speech out of Dries. He doesn't, but he squirms and whimpers when he massages his balls gently with one hand, so Lorenzo counts that as a success and swallows him back down. 

Dries' grip tightens on the back of his neck, it hurts a little this time. Lorenzo can tell that he's close, fighting to keep his hips still. He bucks up into his mouth, two, three times, and comes with a strangled moan. Lorenzo has been expecting it, but he doesn't quite manage to swallow. Dries' come dribbles down his chin and on his chest, pearl-white and sticky. When he lifts his head, Dries hauls him up and kisses him again, like he wants to lick his come out of Lorenzo's mouth.

He kneels on the mattress in front of Dries, his boxers still tented obscenely. He hasn't touched himself. 

There's a wet patch at the front, steadily growing.  
He stares at Dries, chest heaving. Lets his shoulders drop and tries to calm his breathing.

Dries smiles and takes Lorenzo's hand, he interlaces their fingers, and maneuvers him to sit between his thighs. He brings up his palm like he wants to cover Lorenzo's mouth, but instead he says ''Spit'' and Lorenzo does.

Dries takes his hand away and reaches around him, tugs down Lorenzo's underwear, finally gets his hand on his straining dick. Lorenzo splays his thighs apart and leans back against Dries' chest. He drops his head on his shoulder, braces himself as Dries starts stroking him, slowly at first. His hand is hot and slick with Lorenzo's own spit and precome. He circles his thumb around the head, Lorenzo breathes shallow, panting breaths. Dries tightens his fist and speeds up, and Lorenzo can't keep his hips from twitching, he fucks the wet channel of Dries' fingers, heat and lust and pressure shrinking the room until there's nothing but his dick and Dries' hand and his burning lungs and the white dots spinning behind his eyelids.

His control stretches, stretches ever thinner, and then Dries whispers

''It's okay, let go, baby'', his lips just barely brushing Lorenzo's ear  
and it snaps off like a thread and he shouts ''Oh, God, Dries, fuck, ah, _Dries _'' and comes over his fist in quick, shuddering pulses.__

Dries strokes him through it, until he keens and twitches because he's too sensitive now. Dries chuckles and lets go of him. He presses a kiss to Lorenzo's sweaty forehead.

''So. Baby, huh.''

Dries grins up at him. ''Liked that, didn't you.''

Lorenzo can feel himself blushing.  
''Shut up.''

He can't fight the smile that creeps on his face now. He threads his fingers into Dries' hair, plays with his curls.  
It's not awkward. He is so relieved about that.

''Goede nacht'', Dries murmurs where he's curled up against his side.

Lorenzo looks at him, his closed eyes, the lines on his forehead, his pointed nose, his small mouth.  
He listens to Dries' breathing become calm and slow.

Lorenzo reaches over and clicks the night light off.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY MAKING GOOD ON MY M RATING WHEEEE  
> im mailing this from the afterlife y'all. ihave died 10 times bringing this to p̶a̶p̶e̶r̶ desktop. but it is done.  
> im low key high key really proud how this turned out. also i took some liberties in butchering naples geography and stuff. can you drive up San Martino with your car ? probably not lol.  
> if any of you have some corrections toward neapolitan culture stuff in this fic don't be shy to let me know :)  
> if you like this pls leave me a comment, yell at me bc i create stupid drama
> 
> love you all byeeee <3<3<3

**Author's Note:**

> my first ever posted fic ! yay ! if you liked it leave me a comment or a kudos it would make my day <3<3<3  
> ps: timeline ? I don't know her  
> 


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